


Seven Minutes in Hell

by gayshiit



Series: Seven Minutes in Hell [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (on bill), Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak Are Best Friends, Bisexual Stanley Uris, Coming In Pants, Coming Out, Confessions, Dry Humping, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Hand Jobs, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Seven Minutes In Heaven Game, Stanley Uris Has a Crush, Stanley Uris Knows All, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, everyone is of legal age for drinking and fucking okay thanks, hanbrough for the win but stan crushing on bill is too cute, oh and slight benverly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshiit/pseuds/gayshiit
Summary: Richie Tozier is entirely besotted with Eddie Kaspbrak (what’s new) despite having only seen him around campus a few times. He accidentally sort of confesses everything to his best friend, Stan, during an awkward game of Seven Minutes in Heaven at a frat party, which he doesn’t end up regretting as much as he’d expected to. Also, getting in Eddie’s pants wasn’t part of Richie’s original plan, but he isn’t opposed to the idea. And it seems Eddie might not be either.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Seven Minutes in Hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717594
Comments: 28
Kudos: 228





	Seven Minutes in Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reminder that all the Losers are in their early 20s in this story. It's an AU and has nothing to do with Pennywise or IT. 
> 
> Slight warning for like two homophobic slurs that aren't even used in a very threatening context.

Richie loves parties, but he knows Stan doesn’t, and that’s precisely why he chooses to drag him to one on Friday night in spite of his complaints and disgruntled protests. Of course, he doesn’t do it alone, as most of his efforts to annoy the fuck out of Stan require a fellow evil mastermind; an evil mastermind who almost always comes in the form of Beverly Marsh. Richie loves Beverly almost as much as he loves annoying Stan.

The three of them now stand in the front yard of a frat house that Richie swears he’s never seen before — he doesn’t get out much, except to drag Stan to parties — with Bev and Richie clutching one of Stan’s arms each. He’s not exactly trying to struggle, aware that he’s outnumbered, but Richie knows he’s a slippery bastard. He’ll slide away into the closest bathroom the moment Richie takes his eyes off him.

“Mike said he’d be here with Ben,” Bev says pointedly, turning to Richie for some kind of approval, like she expects him to give her permission to hang out with them or something. Richie just nods. He’s not an idiot, he can hear the way her voice raises several octaves higher when she talks about Ben. He’s not even _that_ hot. Richie doesn’t understand the hype.

“Mike’s the chill one, isn’t he?” Stan allows himself to be led towards the door as he speaks. There’s a tone of relief in his voice. Richie rolls his eyes.

“We’re not gonna sit down with them like a group of fucking thirteen year olds and play Spin The Bottle, Stanley. You’ve got some partying to do.” Richie bumps his hip playfully against Stan’s and the guy just grimaces. Richie can’t believe his lack of enthusiasm.

“Actually, Rich, Mike just texted me,” Bev pipes up now. She has her phone in her hand and she’s smiling down at the screen. “He said to meet him and Ben in some guy called Bill’s room upstairs.”

Richie cackles and reaches around to punch Bev in the shoulder. “Wow dude, you’ve got _three guys_ waiting for you upstairs? Fucking hell. I’m not even mad you’re ditching us, I’m impressed.”

Bev shoves him back, but she’s grinning. “Four, actually. Bill brought his friend Eddie. And you and Stan are coming too, dipshit.”

Richie doesn’t even process her last sentence because his brain has decided to stop functioning directly after the name ‘Eddie’ leaves her mouth. He blinks a couple of times and almost swallows his own tongue. “Did you say Eddie? Like, Eddie Kaspbrak?”

Bev raises her eyebrows at him questioningly, but her expression remains innocent and unknowing. “Yeah, I think. Bill’s friend,” she repeats. Richie feels his stomach climb into his throat. “I don’t really know him. Why? Do _you_?”

Richie shakes his head hurriedly, but both Stan and Bev are giving him odd looks now. He mumbles, “No. I’ve just seen him around campus a few times. ’S nothing.” He prays his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel, and they mustn’t be, because Bev merely shrugs and pushes through the front door with Stan’s arm still clutched to her chest. 

It’s not exactly a lie; Richie doesn’t _know_ Eddie. He’s not friends with him. They’ve talked a grand total of like three times, and they both frequent the same coffee shop in the ungodly hours of the morning. They don’t even sit at the same table. Eddie is almost always accompanied by who Richie now assumes is Bill, or, on the rare occasion that he _is_ alone, he’ll order his regular black coffee, curl up in one of the loveseats by the window and bury his freckled nose in a book. Not that Richie pays close attention to his freckles or anything. Or his eyes, which are almost the same colour as his bitter, tasteless coffee (Richie can’t imagine how he drinks that shit). Or his smooth, pink lips that linger on the side of his mug long after he’s taken a sip. He doesn’t pay attention to those things. He’s not a fucking creep. He definitely doesn’t _know_ Eddie, so he’s not lying to his friends when he says it’s nothing. Because it _is_ nothing.

And he’s fine with that, by the way.

Once inside the house, the three of them move as a group through the crowd of sweaty bodies swaying drunkenly to shitty rap music that Richie is sure, under any other circumstances, he would be loudly ridiculing. However, _these_ circumstances just happen to have his stupid brain entirely preoccupied with the knowledge that Eddie Kaspbrak is upstairs waiting to hang out with him. Well, maybe not _him_ specifically, but Richie would rather think of it that way.

By the time Bev’s hauled the two of them past the clammy throng of college kids and up the stairs, Richie’s a bit of a mess. He’s already seen Happy Eddie, and Sleepy Eddie, and Concentrated Eddie, and even Angry Eddie once when Bill had been teasing him about something with that unfortunate stutter of his. But Richie has never seen Drunk Eddie, and he isn’t sure if he’s ready to. He needs more time to mentally prepare for this, but it’s already too late because Bev is shoving him through someone’s bedroom door and he’s stumbling across the carpet almost directly onto a boy with wide eyes and neatly-combed, brown hair and… _shit._

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Richie leaps backwards as if he’s just touched a hotplate and winces as Eddie Kaspbrak’s stupidly adorable face glares up at him from his cross-legged position on the floor. He’s even cuter up close, if that’s possible. And Richie’s just gone and almost flattened him like a fucking steamroller. Brilliant.

“What the- Mike, are these your friends?” Eddie’s expression isn’t exactly one of annoyance, but rather, confusion. Richie still wants to melt into the carpet.

Mike beams at Beverly from across the room after she slams the door shut behind her. “Yeah. Bit of a dramatic entrance, guys.” He looks pointedly at Richie, who cringes. “Bill, Eds, meet Bev, Stan and Richie.”

Bev and Stan give their amused audience a little wave, while Richie just rubs the back of his neck in shame. He only knows Mike and Ben because they’re Bev’s friends, and he thinks they’re cool enough, but now he’s managed to make a complete fucking idiot of himself in front of not only them, but Bill and Eddie too. He’s not the best at first impressions.

Bev nudges Stan forward and he awkwardly introduces himself to Bill, who’s grinning and holding an outstretched hand towards him. Richie almost gives him shit for being so weird and formal, but then thinks better of it because _he’s_ probably more of a loser than Bill could ever be. In his peripheral vision, he catches Eddie sort of side-eyeing him, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. Regardless, he decides he should probably apologise again while everyone else is distracted.

“Sorry for, like, stepping on you, dude,” he mumbles in Eddie’s direction without really meeting his eye. The brunette just shrugs his shoulders and pulls his knees to his chest.

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.” Then, he hastily adds, “I know you, don’t I?”

Richie feels his chest constrict. “Dunno, I’ve seen you around a couple times, I think.” 

Eddie just narrows his eyes and nods, like he can’t quite recall where and when he’s met Richie before, but his face is recognisable enough for him to know he has. Richie supposes there aren’t many twenty two year old guys who wear obnoxious button-ups and glasses that magnify their eyes to three times their size wandering around campus. He suddenly becomes hyper-aware of his appearance and regrets choosing his blinding red and yellow Hawaiian shirt over his much nicer, much less offensive blue button-up.

Ben unexpectedly clears his throat and breaks the uncomfortable silence that’s settled between the two. “You guys want a beer?”

Richie nods without hesitation and catches the bottle being flung his way. He watches as Eddie inspects his fingernails. 

“You know I don’t drink, dude.” The way his nose scrunches up in distaste and his eyebrows furrow like he’s a grumpy old man makes Richie’s insides flutter. Well, if he doesn’t get to see Drunk Eddie tonight, at least he has Disgusted Eddie and his stupid nose-scrunch thing to make up for it.

“C-C’mon Eds, live a little.” Bill smiles at Eddie, then over at Stanley, who promptly averts his eyes to the beer bottle in his lap. Eddie returns the smile dryly after Bill looks away, and Richie almost laughs at the sarcasm dripping from his expression. As much as he longs to tease Eddie for being a loser and not getting drunk, he kind of admires the guy for having the self control that he does. Richie could never. Not at a fucking college frat party. 

Further proving that point to himself, Richie goes on to scull three beers within the timeframe of about seven minutes, and when he’s still not feeling buzzed enough to be satisfied, he nudges Bev and suggests they go do shots or something. Bev just narrows her eyes at him and tells him to “take it easy, Rich.” He flips her the bird and starts on his fourth beer.

Eventually, after some playful banter and more drinks than anyone can keep count of, Beverly pipes up and suggests they play a game.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven,” she declares, cheeks flushed and flaming hair licking at her shoulders. When everyone looks at her in disinterest, she adds, “It’ll be fun, I swear. I played it last year with this group of complete strangers and some girl spun the bottle and it landed on this dude and they went into the closet and fucked, I think, and the next day, they started dating. Still are to this day.” She takes a cautious sip of her beer, as if it’s scalding hot coffee. “Or so I’ve heard.”

A silence falls over the room for a total of five seconds, before being promptly broken by Richie, as per usual. “I hate that fucking game,” he sort of slurs his words, even though he’s far from being blackout drunk. All eyes are directed towards him now. “It’s basically just forcing people to fuck each other.”

“Yeah, and what part of that _wouldn’t_ you enjoy, Tozier?” Stan deadpans. Richie flips him off.

“It’s not that,” Eddie says softly, eyes meeting Richie’s. “Nobody said anything about fucking. You can just _talk_.”

Bill scoffs. “E-Eds, you’re literally e-e-eight years old.”

“Fuck you, Bill. At least I don’t sound like a broken fucking record every time I open my mouth.”

“Ooh! Hit him where it hurts, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie definitely wouldn’t have said that if he wasn’t under the influence of alcohol. He also wouldn’t be throwing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and pulling him to his side, but he _has_ had several beers, which gives him something of an excuse, so he _does_ touch Eddie, perhaps a bit more than he needs to. He doesn’t even have time to regret it. Eddie’s leaning into his side anyway, cuddling up to him like a fucking teddy bear, and Richie once again blames it on the alcohol, despite knowing that the brunette is completely sober, and he _himself_ is hardly close to being drunk. Fuck it. He’s doing this, and Eddie is _letting_ him do this, so it’s fine.

If only there weren’t butterflies in his stomach and some stupid, too-hot feeling burning in his chest, because holy _fuck_ , Richie is _touching_ Eddie Kaspbrak, the cutie with the freckles and the lips and the eyes the same colour as his revolting black coffee. Richie _hates_ how he remembers that. He _hates_ that all of Eddie’s pretty little features are permanently burned into the insides of his eyelids, so that he can’t even close his fucking eyes without seeing his stupid face so vividly in his mind. He fucking hates it. He hates _himself._

“Okay, I’m down.” Richie looks up in surprise as Stan starts talking, and wonders how much he’s had to drink. “Richie, spin one of your empty bottles.”

Richie gapes at him for a second, before shrugging and placing a bottle on its side in the centre of the group. “Alright guys, you heard the man. We’re playing this stupid game so Stan can finally get laid.”

“Hey!”

Richie regrets his decision almost immediately after he spins the bottle and it slows to a stop with the neck pointed towards Stanley. The two stare down at the bottle like it’s a venomous snake, then back up at each other in horror. 

“Bet you didn’t p-plan on that one, b-buddy.” Bill reaches over and slaps Stan on the back, the contact leading him to blush, and open and close his mouth a couple of times like a bewildered goldfish. Richie smirks.

“Come on Stanley, a game is a game. To the closet, my good fellow!” Richie leaps to his feet and holds a hand out towards Stan, who ignores it and stands up sulkily.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be trapped in a fucking closet with this Trashmouth for seven minutes,” he mutters to no one in particular as Richie latches onto the front of his shirt and yanks him towards Bill’s built-in wardrobe on the opposite side of the room. Bill and Mike exchange a sly glance, while Bev just slings an arm around a rather red-faced Ben and whoops loudly. Richie tries to ignore the resentful expression on Eddie’s face as he shoves Stan backwards into the closet and winks at his amused audience, before disappearing inside and slamming the door behind him. 

“Richie, get the fuck off me.”

Richie steps on Stan’s foot and accidentally knocks something off its hanger as he struggles to get comfortable inside the relatively spacious closet. He’s too tall and too gangly and too awkward to even think about fitting comfortably, anyway, so he eventually gives up and just leans clumsily against the wall. He frowns as he realises Stan has lowered himself to the floor and is inspecting his fingernails impassively.

“Dude, you’re so boring.”

Stan doesn’t budge. “What do you _want_ me to do, Richie? Put on a fucking show for you?”

Richie slides ungracefully down the wall of the closet and his ass hits the floor a little harder than he had intended. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck _me_.” Richie grins crookedly and, finally, Stan looks up at him, but with the most blank, disinterested expression Richie has probably ever seen.

Then he says, with the enthusiasm of someone who has just been handed a ten page essay due the following morning, “Richie, I would rather fuck a lampost.”

Richie cackles, his laughter falling flat in the tight space, bouncing off the walls of the wardrobe and then evaporating into thin air as if it had never existed in the first place. He wonders if the others are still gathered outside, listening in on their bland conversation, or if they’ve gotten bored and have ditched the two of them for the actual party downstairs. Richie would feel like an idiot, if that was the case, cramped up in a wardrobe with his best friend who literally couldn’t give less of a shit about entertaining him for a painful seven minutes, while the other five get down and dirty and actually have fun on the dance floor. He wouldn’t blame them.

Richie’s mind drifts back to Eddie, which doesn’t surprise him, but it still irritates the fuck out of him. There isn’t really any way to get Eddie’s stupid face out of his thoughts, especially not since they’d been _touching, cuddling,_ sharing _skin-to-skin contact_ just minutes earlier. Richie tries not to think things that he should _not_ be thinking while sitting in a closet, inches away from his best friend. His cheeks are hot, his chest is hot, his stomach is hot… Eddie is hot… _No_! What the fuck? He shakes a couple of explicit images from his brain and silently scolds himself, but he’s come to realise that the more often he hears that little voice in his head shouting, _“boys aren’t supposed to find other boys hot!”_ the more he accepts that there’s really no way to “cure” whatever the fuck he’s feeling. No, he _knows_ what he’s feeling. He knows what he is now, _who_ he is, and he’s sure as hell not the guy who will fuck your mom. Maybe he’ll fuck your dad. Maybe he can make that joke one day, when he’s _not_ “straight Richie Tozier, the fucker of mothers.” Yeah, shit, there’s Eddie’s face again; he’s definitely not straight. He stopped trying to convince himself of that a long time ago.

The distasteful expression Eddie had worn as he watched Stan and Richie clamber into the closet still lingers at the forefront of Richie’s mind. He’s not even paying attention to reality anymore, really, just thinking out loud at this point as he mumbles, “I think he’s jealous.”

He regrets it the moment the words leave his mouth, and Stan’s eyes meet his in a silent question of _what the fuck are you talking about?_

“Huh?”

“I- Never mind.” Richie buries his head in his hands and groans. _What could be so bad about telling Stan? He loves you, he cares about you, he would take your secret to his fucking grave._ But Richie _can’t_ tell Stan; not because he doesn’t trust him, but because he doesn’t trust _himself._ He doesn’t trust his own emotions enough to be sure he won’t burst into tears or something dumb after spilling his heart out. There’s like a physical roadblock between his mouth and the section of his brain that’s yelling _“I’m gay!”_ and pulling against its constraints, trying to break free. He knows Stan wouldn’t look at him differently, but he’d look at _himself_ differently. It’s the one part of his life that he has control over, that he gets to keep to himself, that he gets to choose who knows and who doesn’t. And if he tells Stan, he’s sure he’ll feel weak, like he’s not strong enough to hold the roadblock in place any longer. He hates this. He hates it.

“Rich, you good?” Stan has a timid hand on his arm now, and Richie realises how stupid he must look with his face shoved into his hands like he’s about to bawl his eyes out. He peers up at Stanley, gaze raking over his pale complexion and curly brown hair and little button nose, his soft features lit up by the single strip of light filtering in through the crack in the wardrobe door. He’s attractive. Richie wouldn’t go so far as to call him hot, because that would be weird, but he’s a good-looking guy. It’s oddly freeing for Richie to casually appreciate the looks of another man, even if said man is his best friend.

He grins feebly. “I’m good, I’m… fucking wonderful, actually.”

Stan doesn’t seem too convinced. He sort of strokes his hand up and down Richie’s arm in an attempt to comfort him, but it’s more awkward than it is reassuring. “You’re definitely _not_ fucking wonderful.” He pauses for a second, staring at Richie like he’s trying to figure him out; like he’s trying to use his eyes to rearrange the hundreds of jumbled jigsaw pieces that make up Richie Tozier. “Is this about Eddie?”

Richie’s stomach leaps into his throat. “No. Yeah. Maybe, yes, it is about Eddie.” His voice is more of a squeak than anything else. Stan just nods knowingly. Why does he always _know_? The bastard.

“I gathered.” Stan seems to deeply contemplate what he’s going to say next. His hand has stilled on Richie’s arm. “Do you… You know, I think he might like you as well.”

“He- What?” Richie splutters, nudging his glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose. Stanley _knows._

“I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but you have a mad crush on that guy.” Stan almost looks like he’s trying not to smile. It’s as if he’s pleased, excited, almost _relieved_ that they’re having this conversation, despite it being in a stuttering guy called Bill’s closet at a frat party. Richie doesn’t say anything; Stan has said enough. He _knows_ enough. And for some reason, it doesn’t feel all too bad that he does.

“Hey, it’s fine though. I think he’s cute. Kind of neurotic, but cute.”

Richie’s eyes widen. “Cute?”

Stan just shrugs. “I mean, yeah. Can’t argue with facts.”

Richie laughs breathily. “I guess not.”

There’s a silence now, but it’s comfortable, and Stan finally removes his hand from Richie’s arm. “You know, I think his friend Bill is hot as fuck.”

Richie is glad he isn’t drinking beer right now because if he was, now would be the moment he would spit it out all over Stanley. “I- I didn’t know you were gay, too,” he splutters.

He doesn’t mean to say the word ‘too’, but Stan doesn’t even notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care, because he’s laughing gently and pushing his curls from his eyes as if Richie hadn’t just asked him a bombshell of a question.

“I’m bisexual, Richie.” He says it so nonchalantly, as if it’s the most unimportant, insignificant thing in the world, and it makes Richie so mad and so awestruck at the same time that he thinks he might go insane. “If you stopped talking and listened for once in your life, you’d probably know that by now. It’s not exactly a secret.”

Richie grins and throws his hands in the air helplessly. “They call me Trashmouth for a reason.”

“I fucking hate you,” Stan glowers, but he’s smiling as well, and now they’re both just sitting there, grinning at each other like idiots who are both pining after boys they just met properly an hour ago. It’s ridiculous, they’re ridiculous, but they love it, and Richie feels more like himself than he’s felt in a very long time.

The closet door swings open, breaking them out of their trance, and Richie turns to be met with Eddie’s scowling face, eyes flitting madly between him and Stan. “Time’s up, dickwad.”

“Aw man, seven minutes is up already? Me and Stan were just getting started.” Richie smirks over his shoulder at Stan, who narrows his eyes at him in warning.

“Seven Minutes in Hell,” he announces to the group now gathered around the wardrobe, jerking his thumb in Richie’s direction. Then he says, a bit softer and more serious now, “Were you guys listening to us?” and Richie feels a sudden pang of adoration for his friend. He knows Stan cares about him, and even though he never explicitly told him, Stan also knows that Richie would very much prefer his dirty little secret to remain as it is: a secret.

“Yeah, I wouldn't want Stan’s moans to be turning you on too much.” Richie looks directly at Eddie as he says this — he isn’t sure why, maybe he’s just feeling brave — and Eddie’s entire face flushes scarlet. Well. What the fuck does that mean.

Bev rolls her eyes and steps forwards, grabbing Richie’s arm. “We didn’t hear a thing, we were too busy talking about how much we hate you. Now let’s go dance, bitches, this game sucks.”

“Really? You really just made me sit in a closet with Richie Tozier for seven agonising minutes only for you to end the game right after? Fuck you.” Stan is obviously joking, and he’s obviously a little buzzed. He takes the beer being thrust towards him by Mike. Richie makes a mock-crying face at him, and Stan flips him off.

They tumble out onto the dancefloor as a group, the seven of them morphing into one and moving together as if they’re some kind of giant, clumpy worm, wriggling their way through the crowd and swaying their hips in time with the music. It’s fun, and Richie finds himself “accidentally” pressed up against Eddie more times than he would like to admit. When a slower, less bass-heavy song comes on over the speakers, they start to drift off into their own separate groups. Ben and Bev gravitate towards each other. Bill and Mike are clutching each others’ hands and doing some kind of outrageous, spinning waltz while Stan watches on sulkily, downing what’s left of his drink and dropping the can at his feet. Richie finds himself chest to chest with Eddie Kaspbrak, and not of his own accord, because it’s _Eddie_ who’s moving his body in time with Richie’s, and it’s _Eddie_ who’s wrapping his arms around the back of Richie’s neck like they’re a couple at a high school dance, and Richie feels dizzy. He’s not even drunk. He’s been too distracted while dancing to drink anything else, but he thinks it might be even better like this. He’ll remember this in the morning. And so will Eddie, because Richie is sure the loser still doesn’t have a drop of alcohol in his system. The thought that Eddie is willingly dancing like this with him while entirely sober does something unspeakable to Richie’s insides. Eddie does a lot of things to his insides.

“Eds,” Richie says, testing out the nickname against Eddie’s ear, and he feels the brunette’s eyelashes flutter against his neck. What the _fuck_?

“Don’t call me Eds” Eddie deadpans, but his voice is slightly shaky and higher than usual, and Richie tries not to think what he wants to think.

Eddie buries his face in Richie’s neck and- holy _shit_ , what?! Those are Eddie’s _lips_ brushing up against his skin; the same tiny, pink lips that take careful sips from his scalding hot coffee at six in the morning while Richie watches like a fucking creep from behind his laptop. Those same fucking lips are ghosting over Richie’s neck, and he truly never thought that could feel as good as it does. People kiss each others’ necks in the porn he’s watched, but it’s in a more aggressive, ravenous way that, don’t get him wrong, he would probably also enjoy, but _this_ … this is different. This is tender and gentle and makes him feel like he’s the only person in the world who’s ever had lips grazing this softly over his neck. _Eddie’s_ lips. He shudders and ignores the voice in his head that asks him what else he thinks Eddie’s lips could do.

Richie glimpses Stan’s mess of curls over Eddie’s shoulder, and they briefly make eye contact. Stan’s eyes widen when he sees the intimate position him and Eddie are in, and he mouths something that looks a lot like, “Get it, Tozier!” Richie resists the urge to flip him off and turns away instead, focusing all of his attention back on Eddie; back on the centre of his universe.

“Eddie Spaghetti?”

Eddie murmurs a response into his shoulder.

Richie isn’t really sure what he wants to say. Well, he certainly knows what he _wants,_ but he isn’t just going to _say it_ and risk scaring Eddie off. He _can’t._ Eddie might not even be into guys.

Okay, you know what, that’s probably the stupidest thought he’s had all night. Fuck it.

“Do you wanna maybe go upstairs?”

Richie feels Eddie stiffen in his arms, and for a second he thinks he might pull away and slap him across the face, maybe point at him and laugh and shout “This guy is trying to hit on me! Richie Tozier is a fucking faggot!” But, of course, he does nothing of the sort. Instead, Eddie scans his surroundings, making sure no one’s eyes are on them, before craning his neck and pecking Richie very gently and very quickly on the lips. And that’s it. Richie’s gone. He is genuinely afraid he might pass out right there in the middle of the dance floor, but he has no doubts that Eddie would catch him.

While Richie’s internally losing his shit, glued to the spot with his heart threatening to tear his chest in two, Eddie finally answers his question. “Fuck yeah.” And that is that.

It doesn’t take them long to stumble up the stairs and into the only room they recognise, slamming the door behind them and forgetting to lock it. Richie doesn’t even have time to care about that, or to feel bad about the fact that they’re using Bill’s bedroom to do whatever the fuck they’re about to do because Eddie is quite literally _shoving_ him, _forcing_ him backwards onto the bed. Richie doesn’t think it’s possible for the guy to get any hotter, but Eddie seems to be full of surprises tonight. 

They crash their lips together in a desperate, sloppy kiss, contrasting wildly with the soft peck they’d shared earlier, and Richie has to admit that he likes _this_ a whole lot better. Now his hands are rubbing circles into the small of Eddie’s back, and Eddie’s fingertips are ghosting a little too close to the waistband of Richie’s jeans, and it all feels so surreal. Richie groans breathily as Eddie settles himself in his lap and _fuck,_ he’s hard, they’re _both_ hard; Richie can _feel_ it and it’s driving him _crazy._ It takes all of Richie’s strength not to buck up against Eddie, but it turns out the brunette might be even more desperate than he is, because he’s moving down to nip at Richie’s neck while simultaneously grinding his hips into Richie’s. Richie thinks his head might explode. 

“Eddie… Eds… are you sure you wanna-”

“I’ve been wanting to do this all fucking night so can you please just shut the fuck up so this isn’t weird for me,” Eddie interjects, his face burning and his eyebrows furrowed, and Richie’s eyes practically bulge out of his head like he’s a fucking cartoon character. He’s been wanting to do this _all night_? Shit, Richie could probably get off to that thought alone.

Now, as much as Richie would _love_ to just lay back and let Eddie ravish him, he pushes himself onto his elbows and nudges his glasses further up his nose. “Weird? Is this weird for you?”

Eddie shakes his head and shimmies a bit further up onto Richie’s stomach. The movement creates friction against Richie’s dick and he tries not to gasp. “Fuck, no. It’s just…” Eddie sighs, combing a hand through his now dishevelled hair. “I’ve never done this before. Like, with a guy. Or with anyone.” He mutters the last sentence like it’s something to be ashamed of, but Richie doesn’t think it is. No, Richie thinks that Eddie’s innocence makes him impossibly more adorable.

“Dude. It’s okay.” Richie lets his hand trail absentmindedly down to caress Eddie’s hand, which is twisted in the front of Richie’s ugly Hawaiian shirt. “Me neither, really. With guys, I mean. Like, I once gave some dude a handjob in a bathroom stall, but it doesn’t really count. He didn’t even return the favour… like, he fully just fucked off after he finished. It was fucking gross.” Richie scrunches up his nose at the memory, and so does Eddie, but his expression is sympathetic.

He looks down at Richie with his eyes wide and soft and concerned and says, “Well, I hope you know that I’m not just gonna fuck off after this.”

Richie raises his eyebrows but now there’s a big, stupid grin plastered over his lips. “Are you implying that you expect a handjob from me, Kaspbrak?”

Eddie’s cheeks glow brighter than Richie has seen them all night, and that’s saying a lot, since Eddie is embarrassingly prone to blushing. His eyes are dark and his tongue is gliding over his stupid, kissable lips, and Richie guesses — _hopes_ — that it’s because he’s turned on by that thought.

“I didn’t… do you… can we do this instead?” Eddie practically whispers, and although Richie has no idea what “ _this_ ” refers to, he nods his head and bites his lip as Eddie adjusts himself above him.

“Eddie, we can do whatever the fuck y- _ohhh, okay, fuck_!” 

Richie moans, and he’s a bit embarrassed by that, but he fucking throws his head back and _moans_ like a girl as Edward Kaspbrak begins grinding down directly against Richie’s dick like his life depends on it. Eddie’s eyes flash mischievously at the sound and he leans down to kiss Richie, or rather, slobber all over him, but neither of them really care. He brings a hand forwards to cup Richie’s cheek, accidentally knocking his glasses off his face and onto the sheets beside him. Richie barely notices.

“Eddie… fuck, _Eddie_.”

“What?” Eddie almost growls against his mouth, not once slowing the movement of his hips. Something in Richie’s stomach does a backflip.

“Dude, you’re so fucking hot.” 

“Don’t call me ‘dude’ while I’m fucking _humping_ you.”

Richie’s lips stretch into a lopsided grin. “You’re so _cute_.”

“Shut up.”

“Literally the most adorable person in th- _oh my god_!”

Eddie, being the cheeky bastard that he is, has decided to slip a fucking hand down the front of Richie’s boxers and Richie’s head is positively _reeling._

“Fuck, Eds, please-”

“Shut up,” Eddie repeats sternly, but Richie can’t take him seriously now, what with Eddie’s fingers wrapped around his dick and, _shit_ , Eddie may be completely inexperienced in the field of handjobs, or sex in general, but this is probably the best Richie’s dick has ever felt in his life.

“Don’t stop.”

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” Eddie snaps, and that should really not be as hot as it is for Richie. They’re not even _fucking_ ; they still have all their clothes on — Eddie doesn’t even have his _dick_ out, for Christ’s sake — but Richie already feels heat pooling in his stomach. He squeezes Eddie’s hip with one hand, and brings the other down to tap his wrist, as a sort of warning. Eddie either doesn’t get the message, or he doesn’t care, because he only speeds up his movements. Richie’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Eds. I’m-”

“I know.”

Richie’s well aware of the fact that Eddie is still moving on top of him, rubbing his very clothed dick against Richie’s very clothed thigh, creating a wet patch against the fabric that Richie can feel but can’t bring himself to care about, even though these _are_ his favourite jeans. Eddie’s whimpering and his breaths are short and sharp, like he’s trying to hold back much louder noises that are threatening to escape. He’s close too, Richie can tell, and the thought alone makes him moan and pull Eddie down so he can nibble on the brunette’s earlobe.

“Wait, hang on,” he whispers, and Eddie withdraws his hand, much to Richie’s dismay.

“What? Did I do something?”

“No, no, just…” Richie fumbles around beside his head for his glasses, finally snatching them up and positioning them back on his nose. His eyes almost drop right out of his head because _holy shit,_ now he has Eddie’s flushed face and trembling thighs in full HD in front of him and it’s almost too much to take in. He’s practically drooling.

“What are you-”

“I wanna see you,” Richie admits sheepishly, running a hand up Eddie’s thigh. He likes Eddie’s thighs, and can’t help wondering what they’d look like in this position without being clad in jeans. “I wanna see your face when you come.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. His eyes are glazed over and Richie notices he’s starting to thrust against Richie’s thigh once more. “O-Oh god.”

Richie can’t help himself. He pushes his palm against Eddie’s erection and feels the brunette tangle unsteady hands in his hair. The moan he lets out is undoubtedly the hottest thing Richie has ever heard. He could come right now just from _listening_ to Eddie moan.

“ _Richie._ ”

“Touch me, asshole.”

“I- yeah.” Eddie doesn’t even snap back at Richie this time. His eyes are scrunched up and strands of hair are falling over his face as he shoves Richie’s jeans and boxers down over his hips and takes his length back into his hand. Richie inhales sharply, still palming at the front of Eddie’s trousers.

“Hey, Eds?”

“What?” Eddie chews on his bottom lip, his eyes remaining tightly shut.

“You look so fucking hot like this.”

The steady rhythm of Eddie’s hips stutters for a second. “Stop talking.”

Richie grins playfully and rubs harder over Eddie’s crotch. “You’re the hottest fucking person I’ve ever seen. Wanna see your pretty fucking face when you come.”

Richie’s just babbling nonsensically at this point, but he knows he’s succeeding in getting Eddie all worked up because the shorter man is moaning even louder than before and pressing himself into Richie’s hand. He speeds up his tugs on Richie’s dick. “Richie I-”

Richie doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to last, but he knows Eddie’s probably closer than him now, so he makes it his goal to finish him off first. “Come for me, Eddie. Come in your fucking pants for me.”

He hasn’t even finished his sentence before Eddie is throwing his head back, hips stuttering into Richie’s hand and eyes squeezing shut, shouting and moaning his release into his jeans. Richie rubs him through it, still aware of Eddie’s hand moving lazily over his dick. At this point, he won’t even care if Eddie doesn’t finish him off, because seeing Eddie like _this,_ all blissed-out and sweaty and red in the face, is basically like a mini-orgasm for his eyes.

But Eddie is not done yet. He can barely hold himself upright, slumping down against Richie’s chest and pumping his dick so fast, Richie thinks it might just fall right off. He bucks his hips up into Eddie’s fist, once, twice, three times, before he’s spilling all over his hand and groaning low in his throat. He hears Eddie’s little whimper of distaste as the fluid makes contact with his skin, but ignores it, craning his neck to bring their lips together.

Eddie kisses him back just as passionately, momentarily forgetting the sticky situation his hand is in, and flopping down beside Richie. He nuzzles his unkempt mop of hair into Richie’s chest. Richie can’t believe his fucking luck right now.

“Do you reckon Bill will mind if I wipe your jizz on his bedsheets?” Eddie grumbles against Richie’s shirt, which is now clinging uncomfortably to his body with sweat. Richie just laughs and grabs a handful of tissues from the box very conveniently placed on the bedside table.

“Lucky for you, Eddie my dear, Bill was prepared for us.” He tosses the wad of tissues into Eddie’s face, who shoots him an irritated glare.

“Dickhead,” Eddie snaps back, but he’s grinning. “I’m gonna have to tell Bill to wash his sheets now.”

“If you tell anyone about this I’ll fucking decapitate you.”

Eddie looks almost hurt for a second. He hoists himself onto his elbow and furrows his eyebrows at Richie. “What… are you like, _ashamed_? To be doing this with me?” Richie opens his mouth to explain that _holy fuck, no, that’s definitely not it_ , but Eddie is cutting him off, his tone high with panic. “You don’t regret this, do you? Oh fuck, you’re drunk, aren’t you? You probably fucking regret this, I should’ve asked for your fucking consent or some-”

Eddie is silenced by Richie’s lips, which taste a lot less like beer than Eddie had previously even realised, and that fact makes him relax significantly. He melts into the kiss, winding his arms around Richie’s back, slipping his warm fingers up beneath his shirt to trace patterns onto the skin there. He’s not hoping to initiate anything, Richie can tell; he just wants to be _close_. And Richie fucking loves him for that.

Richie pulls away first, and is quick to place his hands on either side of Eddie’s face and stare down at him with an expression that he hopes screams: _I don’t fucking regret this and I don’t think I ever could._

“Eds,” he whispers, squishing Eddie’s cheeks a bit and making him squirm. “One: I could never be ashamed of _you_. You’re way too fucking cute. Two: I am also very much _not_ drunk. This party is fucking lame and Bev wouldn’t let me do shots. And three: I think me moaning your name like a fucking pornstar is as good as consent. I also distinctly remember saying, ‘Don’t stop, Eddie, oh my _god_ , I’m gonna _come_!’” Richie fake-moans a little too loudly and Eddie looks positively mortified. His skin is turning tomato-red beneath Richie’s fingertips.

“Fuck you. You didn’t say it like that, shut up.” Then, in a lighter tone, “Why can’t I tell anyone then? I can't even tell Bill that I just lost my handjob virginity in his bedroom?”

Richie snorts and leans in to kiss his nose. Fuck, it’s still hard to believe this is _Eddie Kaspbrak_ in front of him, being held by him, being _touched_ by him. It’s like some crazy, gay romcom come to life and Richie is totally here for it. 

“It’s just… hard,” Richie admits truthfully, because it _is_ fucking hard, it’s _very_ hard to be the thing that everyone hates the most; the thing that people turn up their noses at and sneer in disgust at the mere thought of. “I’m not exactly _out_. To anyone.” _Except Stan,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say it. Instead, he adds dramatically, for good measure, “Not even your mom, who deserves to know, I guess, since she’s been fucking a queer all this ti-”

“Shut the _fuck_ up.” Eddie makes to punch his shoulder, but Richie dodges his blow with a giggle and rolls over onto his back. Eddie’s voice is soft now, and Richie can tell, even though he’s staring at the ceiling, that his expression is soft too. 

“And yeah, I get it. But like, I didn’t even _know_ I was gay before tonight. I guess. Maybe I’d thought about it a few times but…” Eddie sighs and Richie hears him flop over onto his back, mimicking Richie’s position. “I don’t think being gay is all that terrible if I get to do _this,_ holy _shit_.”

Richie finds himself unable to hold back his grin. “Yeah, I know. Dicks are pretty cool. But don’t set your standards too high, Kaspbrak. I’m kind of a sex god.”

Eddie shoves him. “Shut up.”

“I’m glad I could be your big gay sexual awakening.”

“Shut _up_ , Richie.”

“You _love_ me.”

Richie visibly cringes as Eddie falls silent. Maybe that was too far. It was obviously a joke, but Eddie seems fragile about that sort of thing. Eddie seems fragile about _everything_ , and that’s one of the many things that Richie loves about him.

Does he love him? Maybe he’s _falling_ in love with him. Maybe he’s already fallen. Who the fuck knows.

Eddie clears his throat. “So. What am I even gonna tell Bill?”

“Well, you can always say you were getting it on with some hot college chick.” Richie waggles his eyebrows at Eddie, who rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like anyone would believe that bullshit. Who the fuck says ‘getting it on’ anyway?”

“You’re fucking rude.”

“You’re fucking bad at coming up with excuses.”

“Well what else do you suggest, Einstein?”

Eddie just shrugs helplessly and gazes up at Richie through his eyelashes, which- _holy shit, he’s the cutest fucking person in the world._

Oblivious to Richie’s awestruck implosion, Eddie brings up a new topic, which surprises Richie to no ends. “What do you think we should do? About… this whole thing?” He gestures shyly between them. “About _us_?”

Richie thinks _fuck it_ — not for the first time tonight — and answers bravely, honestly, “I think that I want to take you out on a date. And I want to hold your hand and I want to kiss you whenever I want. But mainly, I just want you for the sex-”

“Asshole.” Eddie’s giggling and blushing like a fucking schoolgirl and Richie might just faint. “You’re ridiculous.” He pauses. “But, yeah, that wouldn’t be so bad. Going on a date with you, I mean.”

Before Richie can open his big mouth and blurt some idiotic joke to completely ruin the atmosphere of romance that has settled between them, he hears footsteps approaching the door and someone rattling the handle.

Richie and Eddie spring apart like they’ve been electrocuted, Richie yanking up his jeans in the process, and watch with flushed cheeks as Stan bursts through the door, staggering and obviously very drunk. He grins and his eyes light up as he makes out Richie perched on the end of the bed, as far away from Eddie as is physically possible.

“Richie! Bev told me you were up here,” he slurs. His eyes travel over to Eddie briefly, and Richie prays he’s wasted enough to not actually say anything about them. If he were to bring up what Richie told him earlier, Richie might just kill himself. “What are you doing? What are you two _doing_ in here? You should be _partying_!”

Stan wiggles his hips, beer sloshing in the bottle clutched in his right hand, and Richie snorts. “I’m proud of you, Stan the Man. Didn’t think you’d be able to pull the stick out of your ass and actually have fun at a party.”

Stan blinks at him, unfazed by what would normally have him furiously hitting Richie’s arm. He giggles, sways on the spot, then immediately leans over and pukes all over the carpet. Eddie makes a little noise of disgust.

“What the fuck, man!” Richie springs to his feet and grabs the back of Stan’s shirt to steady him. “Fuck dude, that’s so gross. God.” He turns to Eddie, brow creasing apologetically. “I have to take him home, he’s gonna get himself killed.”

Eddie just nods. “Yeah. It’s okay. I’m not cleaning up his barf, though.”

Richie chuckles. “Just leave it. Bill can deal with it in the morning.”

“You’re so fucking mean,” Eddie smiles, and he gives Richie a little wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, at the coffee shop, like always?”

Richie almost throws up himself at the prospect of Eddie actually being aware of his presence in the coffee shop all along. “Yeah, of course. It’s a date.”

Richie winks, and Eddie just has time to blush and avert his eyes to his lap, before Richie is dragging Stanley out the door and away from the puddle of vomit on Bill’s bedroom floor.

He can’t find it in him to be mad at Stan for breaking up him and Eddie’s little bedroom rendezvous, because the guy looks so fucking out of it and Richie’s just relieved he didn’t say anything dumb related to their closet conversation (ha ha, the irony). Stan really _is_ the most loyal friend, even when he’s absolutely blasted. Richie loves him for that.

Richie manhandles Stan down the stairs and mumbles a brief explanation to Bev, who’s still dancing with the Ben guy who- yeah, Richie can see now why she’s attracted to him. Then he’s ushering Stan out the door and waiting for him to finish vomiting into the bushes on the front lawn, before wrapping an arm around his waist and practically carrying him down the street. God, he’s never seen Stan this wasted before. Are Jews even allowed to get drunk? Richie should know, being Jewish and all.

At some point, Stan sort of stops in his tracks, and Richie thinks he’s going to barf again. But Stan simply turns to Richie and nudges their shoulders together, quirking an eyebrow.

“So, you finally got dicked down, I see,” Stan’s words are scarily sober and Richie feels heat rush to his face. He’s about to protest that no, he did not get “ _dicked down_ ,” he didn’t even technically _touch_ Eddie’s dick. But before he can initiate that argument, Stan is saying sincerely, “You and Eddie are so cute. I like that guy.”

And, before he can shoot some nonsensical, bullshit joke back at him, Richie feels something stirring inside of him, something pushing against the confinements of his brain and clawing its way down his throat and out onto his tongue. Something feels clearer. Something makes more sense inside of his head. It feels like a roadblock has been hauled out of the way and the traffic that has been at a standstill for hours can pass by freely again. It’s a strange relief, one that Richie has never really felt before, but it makes him feel strong and it makes him feel free.

So he says, with a new surge of bravery, “I like that guy, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> PART 2 IS HERE WOOP WOOP


End file.
